![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xp_banshee posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_logsForge was impressed with the breath and depth of the kitchen, but there was one thing that was just a burr under his saddle, a thing he just couldn't tolerate. Which is why the fancy stand mixer was disassembled in parts across the counter and he was poking at its engine. Thing was going to strip a gear and ... not on his watch, Kitchenaid!
Terry could hear the tinkering in the kitchen from several halls away, her hearing already focusing in on the familiar sounds, though they were coming from an unusual place. Upon arriving at her destination, she paused in the doorway and surveyed the newly parts-laden terrain before her.
Tilting her head to the side, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, Terry asked the unfamiliar man standing amidst the chaos, “Pardon, but is that my personal stand mixer you’ve… taken t’pieces there?”
"Oh, is this yours?" he asked, not diverting his attention from his work on the mixer's gearbox. "Have this thing fixed in a moment. It was in the process of stripping a gear." he said, gesturing vaguely towards the bowl, still full of not-really-mixed-at-all ingredients. Then he finally turned around to see who it was he was speaking to. "Hey. I'm Forge." he said, extending a glove-covered hand towards her to shake or not as she was so inclined.
“Terry Cassidy-Rourke,” she responded, taking his hand and shaking it firmly before releasing it again. Curious, she wandered closer to the scattered remains of her grandmother’s stand mixer and asked, “Y’mentioned a screw bein’ stripped?”
"Something like that. Gearbox, as simple as it is, seems to be doing fine so just a couple of parts replacements and we should be good to go" he said. "Did you need it, because I've still got frybread dough to make before I can surrender the mixer." he said with what he hoped was a cheerful smile. "If I show up without frybread, I may set some kind of record between arrival and murder at Maya's hands."
“Well, I ‘spose I can let y’finish, so long as y’tell me how t’make it as y’go along,” Terry responded, returning his smile with one of her own. “I was goin’ t’make a few loaves o’white and wheat bread, since I’ve yet t’master gluten free. Like t’leave it out for people. Goes brilliantly with the individual containers o’soup and stew I’ve started leavin’ in the main freezer.”
Forge poked something in the mixer that didn't want to be poked and a part flew out to be lost among the counter debris. Forge stared at the mixer for a moment, then looked back at Terry and shrugged. "That was ... unexpected. This wasn't assembled in the USA." he said accusingly, as if parochial concerns about the mixer's origin was tantamount to a betrayal.
“Well,” Terry replied, “In case the accent didn’t give it away, neither was I. And m’grandmother certainly wasn’t.”
"I try not to judge that way." he said, then frowned at the mixer. "All right, you piece of Euro kit. We're going to get you back up and running..." he said, and then grabbed a part from his unfurled toolkit and shoved it into place. "Going to make me do this the hard way..." he muttered to himself as he manipulated the part. "Cooperate or I will bury you like a potato."
Eyebrows rising as she cleared a space for herself before hopping up on the counter near enough to keep an eye on what Forge was doing, Terry asked, “Y’save the potato jokes for everythin’ from Ireland, or just the stand mixers?”
"Potayto, potahto." he said with a grin. "Covers a lot of ground." he said, then frowned at the mixer. The recalcitrant part finally caved in and settled into its new home and Forge grinned at it. "There we go." he said with satisfaction. "Be just a few more moments to let me button him back up and then we'll test to make sure everything is good."
Terry shook her head a bit, knowing it was ridiculous to blow a comment about potatoes completely out of proportion. “So’re y’into mechanics and machines and the like? Or was the mixer a special case?”
"Machines. It's my gift." he said. "I see them, I know how they work, and I can make them." he said as his hand worked, reassembling her grandmother's stand mixer. "Seals rot if you look at them sideways but I don't have the parts I need to fix that for good." he muttered. "Have to come back and fix those, then this thing will last until possibly the next apocalypse." he said. "And ... voila!" he said buttoning up the mixer and putting the bowl of ingredients back in place.
Smiling softly, Terry commented, “I like that y’ all it a gift. So much these days is clinical and distant or used t’stir up fear and anger. But not when y’call what we can do gifts. Lightens it a bit.”
"I mean, I can use it to assist people in blowing up colonizers if I wanted, but it's more versatile than that. Do you want me to make your grandmother's stand mixer into a weapon?" he asked with a quirked eyebrow. "But it's still a gift. Gifts are in and of themselves neutral. It's what you do with it that matters." he said. Something inside him lurched and he kept his composure by a force of will.
Terry blinked for a moment, trying to reconcile the segue from gifts to weaponry with the strange stop-start she’d heard even though Forge’s expression never changed. “I’m more than enough of a weapon in and of myself, but thank y’for the offer. I agree with you about gifts being neutral by nature, but it isn’t so for everyone, especially once y’factor in prejudice. You and I could pass for baseline humans, if we wanted, but I know people would couldn’t walk down a street in a small town without starting a riot. The world often hardens people, whether gifted or not.”
"I've got it a little harder than you but this isn't misery poker." he pointed out. "Got a couple of thoughts to help our more visible brothers and sisters, but its on my healthy and growing to-do list." he said with a slight sigh. He then turned on the mixer, which purred its way into mixing his dough ingredients into a functional frybread dough. "And there we are. One non-weaponized heirloom stand mixer."
“I appreciate it,” Terry said, smiling again. “And I apologize if I made it seem like some sort of competition. I recognize that most have it worse than I ever did. It was just nice t’hear someone with a philosophy on our various gifts that seemed t’go along the same lines as my own.” She paused for a moment before continuing, “If y’get those things t’help our brothers and sisters sorted, will y’let me know? I do a fair bit of work with the Underground. Need t’be more careful now, since things aren’t runnin’ so smoothly there, but anything that might help them t’blend in…”
"Sure thing." he said agreeably as he watched Terry's grandmother's stand mixer knead his dough with skill and power both. "Yep. Gonna call this one fixed, at least until I can fabricate something to replace those groty seals."
“Lovely!” Terry said, then raised her eyebrows. “What goes in t’make the dough?”
"It's about as simple as such things get..." he said, then went off on a description of what it was he was mixing into a dough.
Terry followed along, noting the lack of actual measurements. It made her laugh a little, reminding her of how her grandfather had taught her to bake. Nothing measured. You just had to know what it looked like when it was done correctly, then repeat it.
“Thank you,” she said, gesturing toward the dough but obviously also including his explanation and tolerance toward all her questions.
"You're welcome. Gotta get this dough going and then let it rest for a bit before I shape it and fry it." he said. "And in the meantime, let me clean up my mess..." he said, gathering up his tools neatly and then scrubbing the counter down.
“Mind if I watch? I’ve seen friends from Pakistan and India making naan, so I’m interested to see if there’s a difference,” Terry said, still sitting on the counter. At least he didn’t need to clean around her.
"Not exactly real excitement here." he said, keeping an eye on the mixer as it whirred. His mind's eye calculated the rate of rotation of the dough hook, the speed of the mixture inside the bowl, the torque produced by the motor. At least she had the good grace to not sit in a mess so he'd have to ask her to move. Come to think of it, looking at the ... what did her people call it? Her bonny lass nature was starting to get to him, so it was clearly time to focus on something else.
Anything else.
What was going on in Forge’s mind? Terry could see his eyes flicking between different parts of the mixer, then the dough, and his heart had steadied out from whatever had happened earlier, so…
“Oh dear,” she said, hopping off the counter. “I’m makin’ y’uncomfortable, aren’t I? I’m terribly sorry.”
"It's fine. I'm just not used to dealing with people." he said uncomfortably. Like after he and all his buddies got fed to an eldritch horror. But even before then he was hardly Mr Personality. "I'm working on it."
“No worries, Forge,” Terry said, smiling again. “I can go, if y’like, or I could keep y’company. Either is alright and whatever y’choose, I’ll not hold it against you.”
Saved by the dough! It was ready so he busied himself getting it out of the bowl and into a container so it could rest before he shaped and fried it. "Welp, this needs to sit for a spell and you mentioned you wanted to do some baking of your own. Let me clean up my mess here and it's all yours."
“Lovely,” Terry said. She really hadn’t fancied baking all that bread in her suite. Kyle’s would have been better, if just for the company, but he was doing actual work today, which left her at loose ends, a bit. Baking the day away would be relaxing. “There’s some soup and other things in individual containers in the freezer, if y’d like some,” she offered, already bustling about the kitchen collecting the bowls and all the other baking paraphernalia she preferred.
"Kind of you, but I'm fine." he said as he was finishing up his cleaning. "Thanks for offering and ... hopefully your baking goes well." he said as he gathered up his tools to discretely flee the kitchen.
Shaking her head as he left, Terry wondered if Forge understood what she meant when she said she was going to bake ‘some’ bread. Likely not, but if he felt more comfortable with solitude, she wouldn’t bother him. Besides, she needed to get dessert started while the first batch of bread was proofing and then she had dinner to sort out.
Terry could hear the tinkering in the kitchen from several halls away, her hearing already focusing in on the familiar sounds, though they were coming from an unusual place. Upon arriving at her destination, she paused in the doorway and surveyed the newly parts-laden terrain before her.
Tilting her head to the side, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, Terry asked the unfamiliar man standing amidst the chaos, “Pardon, but is that my personal stand mixer you’ve… taken t’pieces there?”
"Oh, is this yours?" he asked, not diverting his attention from his work on the mixer's gearbox. "Have this thing fixed in a moment. It was in the process of stripping a gear." he said, gesturing vaguely towards the bowl, still full of not-really-mixed-at-all ingredients. Then he finally turned around to see who it was he was speaking to. "Hey. I'm Forge." he said, extending a glove-covered hand towards her to shake or not as she was so inclined.
“Terry Cassidy-Rourke,” she responded, taking his hand and shaking it firmly before releasing it again. Curious, she wandered closer to the scattered remains of her grandmother’s stand mixer and asked, “Y’mentioned a screw bein’ stripped?”
"Something like that. Gearbox, as simple as it is, seems to be doing fine so just a couple of parts replacements and we should be good to go" he said. "Did you need it, because I've still got frybread dough to make before I can surrender the mixer." he said with what he hoped was a cheerful smile. "If I show up without frybread, I may set some kind of record between arrival and murder at Maya's hands."
“Well, I ‘spose I can let y’finish, so long as y’tell me how t’make it as y’go along,” Terry responded, returning his smile with one of her own. “I was goin’ t’make a few loaves o’white and wheat bread, since I’ve yet t’master gluten free. Like t’leave it out for people. Goes brilliantly with the individual containers o’soup and stew I’ve started leavin’ in the main freezer.”
Forge poked something in the mixer that didn't want to be poked and a part flew out to be lost among the counter debris. Forge stared at the mixer for a moment, then looked back at Terry and shrugged. "That was ... unexpected. This wasn't assembled in the USA." he said accusingly, as if parochial concerns about the mixer's origin was tantamount to a betrayal.
“Well,” Terry replied, “In case the accent didn’t give it away, neither was I. And m’grandmother certainly wasn’t.”
"I try not to judge that way." he said, then frowned at the mixer. "All right, you piece of Euro kit. We're going to get you back up and running..." he said, and then grabbed a part from his unfurled toolkit and shoved it into place. "Going to make me do this the hard way..." he muttered to himself as he manipulated the part. "Cooperate or I will bury you like a potato."
Eyebrows rising as she cleared a space for herself before hopping up on the counter near enough to keep an eye on what Forge was doing, Terry asked, “Y’save the potato jokes for everythin’ from Ireland, or just the stand mixers?”
"Potayto, potahto." he said with a grin. "Covers a lot of ground." he said, then frowned at the mixer. The recalcitrant part finally caved in and settled into its new home and Forge grinned at it. "There we go." he said with satisfaction. "Be just a few more moments to let me button him back up and then we'll test to make sure everything is good."
Terry shook her head a bit, knowing it was ridiculous to blow a comment about potatoes completely out of proportion. “So’re y’into mechanics and machines and the like? Or was the mixer a special case?”
"Machines. It's my gift." he said. "I see them, I know how they work, and I can make them." he said as his hand worked, reassembling her grandmother's stand mixer. "Seals rot if you look at them sideways but I don't have the parts I need to fix that for good." he muttered. "Have to come back and fix those, then this thing will last until possibly the next apocalypse." he said. "And ... voila!" he said buttoning up the mixer and putting the bowl of ingredients back in place.
Smiling softly, Terry commented, “I like that y’ all it a gift. So much these days is clinical and distant or used t’stir up fear and anger. But not when y’call what we can do gifts. Lightens it a bit.”
"I mean, I can use it to assist people in blowing up colonizers if I wanted, but it's more versatile than that. Do you want me to make your grandmother's stand mixer into a weapon?" he asked with a quirked eyebrow. "But it's still a gift. Gifts are in and of themselves neutral. It's what you do with it that matters." he said. Something inside him lurched and he kept his composure by a force of will.
Terry blinked for a moment, trying to reconcile the segue from gifts to weaponry with the strange stop-start she’d heard even though Forge’s expression never changed. “I’m more than enough of a weapon in and of myself, but thank y’for the offer. I agree with you about gifts being neutral by nature, but it isn’t so for everyone, especially once y’factor in prejudice. You and I could pass for baseline humans, if we wanted, but I know people would couldn’t walk down a street in a small town without starting a riot. The world often hardens people, whether gifted or not.”
"I've got it a little harder than you but this isn't misery poker." he pointed out. "Got a couple of thoughts to help our more visible brothers and sisters, but its on my healthy and growing to-do list." he said with a slight sigh. He then turned on the mixer, which purred its way into mixing his dough ingredients into a functional frybread dough. "And there we are. One non-weaponized heirloom stand mixer."
“I appreciate it,” Terry said, smiling again. “And I apologize if I made it seem like some sort of competition. I recognize that most have it worse than I ever did. It was just nice t’hear someone with a philosophy on our various gifts that seemed t’go along the same lines as my own.” She paused for a moment before continuing, “If y’get those things t’help our brothers and sisters sorted, will y’let me know? I do a fair bit of work with the Underground. Need t’be more careful now, since things aren’t runnin’ so smoothly there, but anything that might help them t’blend in…”
"Sure thing." he said agreeably as he watched Terry's grandmother's stand mixer knead his dough with skill and power both. "Yep. Gonna call this one fixed, at least until I can fabricate something to replace those groty seals."
“Lovely!” Terry said, then raised her eyebrows. “What goes in t’make the dough?”
"It's about as simple as such things get..." he said, then went off on a description of what it was he was mixing into a dough.
Terry followed along, noting the lack of actual measurements. It made her laugh a little, reminding her of how her grandfather had taught her to bake. Nothing measured. You just had to know what it looked like when it was done correctly, then repeat it.
“Thank you,” she said, gesturing toward the dough but obviously also including his explanation and tolerance toward all her questions.
"You're welcome. Gotta get this dough going and then let it rest for a bit before I shape it and fry it." he said. "And in the meantime, let me clean up my mess..." he said, gathering up his tools neatly and then scrubbing the counter down.
“Mind if I watch? I’ve seen friends from Pakistan and India making naan, so I’m interested to see if there’s a difference,” Terry said, still sitting on the counter. At least he didn’t need to clean around her.
"Not exactly real excitement here." he said, keeping an eye on the mixer as it whirred. His mind's eye calculated the rate of rotation of the dough hook, the speed of the mixture inside the bowl, the torque produced by the motor. At least she had the good grace to not sit in a mess so he'd have to ask her to move. Come to think of it, looking at the ... what did her people call it? Her bonny lass nature was starting to get to him, so it was clearly time to focus on something else.
Anything else.
What was going on in Forge’s mind? Terry could see his eyes flicking between different parts of the mixer, then the dough, and his heart had steadied out from whatever had happened earlier, so…
“Oh dear,” she said, hopping off the counter. “I’m makin’ y’uncomfortable, aren’t I? I’m terribly sorry.”
"It's fine. I'm just not used to dealing with people." he said uncomfortably. Like after he and all his buddies got fed to an eldritch horror. But even before then he was hardly Mr Personality. "I'm working on it."
“No worries, Forge,” Terry said, smiling again. “I can go, if y’like, or I could keep y’company. Either is alright and whatever y’choose, I’ll not hold it against you.”
Saved by the dough! It was ready so he busied himself getting it out of the bowl and into a container so it could rest before he shaped and fried it. "Welp, this needs to sit for a spell and you mentioned you wanted to do some baking of your own. Let me clean up my mess here and it's all yours."
“Lovely,” Terry said. She really hadn’t fancied baking all that bread in her suite. Kyle’s would have been better, if just for the company, but he was doing actual work today, which left her at loose ends, a bit. Baking the day away would be relaxing. “There’s some soup and other things in individual containers in the freezer, if y’d like some,” she offered, already bustling about the kitchen collecting the bowls and all the other baking paraphernalia she preferred.
"Kind of you, but I'm fine." he said as he was finishing up his cleaning. "Thanks for offering and ... hopefully your baking goes well." he said as he gathered up his tools to discretely flee the kitchen.
Shaking her head as he left, Terry wondered if Forge understood what she meant when she said she was going to bake ‘some’ bread. Likely not, but if he felt more comfortable with solitude, she wouldn’t bother him. Besides, she needed to get dessert started while the first batch of bread was proofing and then she had dinner to sort out.
